


Introspection and Insomnia

by merentha13



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merentha13/pseuds/merentha13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray has a sleepless night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introspection and Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> _I hear the ticking of the clock, I’m lying here the rooms pitch dark.  
>  I wonder where you are tonight, no answer on the telephone.  
> And the night goes by so very slow.  
> I hope that it won’t end, though, alone._
> 
>  _Till now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met you.  
>  But now it chills me to the bone…_  
> -"Alone" by Heart

Sleep eluded him. This was the fourth night running. He fought his way free of the covers and climbed stiffly out of bed. A cuppa, liberally dosed with whiskey, might be enough to help him relax and figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He puttered around in the kitchen while images of his partner kept running through his mind. No, images of he and his partner and that was what was worrying him, that’s what was keeping him from sleep. What did it mean that every time he closed his eyes he saw Bodie; he saw himself with Bodie.

He’d been startled out of a doze by the memory of an op that should have ended badly. They were climbing through yet another decrepit building and he’d had a stoppage. He knew he was dead. He’d closed his eyes and waited for the bullet that would end him, end the Bisto Kids. But it never came. Bodie had though. Bodie had seen him frozen in place, quickly assessed the situation and taken action. The villain was dead and he had sat there trembling, only able to croak out a weak “thanks”. Bodie had diffused the emotion of the situation with an terse comment about the quality of their weapons. He himself had been glad of the reprieve from both the physical and emotional bullets.

They had a volatile relationship, no doubt. Sometimes there was anger when one or the other of them took an unnecessary risk. He recalled the shooting at Wimbledon. He’d stormed through the front door while Bodie swung in through the window opposite. He’d hesitated at taking the shot immediately, afraid Bodie might be in the line of fire. Bodie had been furious and had read him the riot act. He’d been angry too, adrenaline pouring through them both. He’d yelled back, asking Bodie who would have been the recipient of his shots if he had come in shooting and missed the target. Bodie looked incredulous and asked, “Since when did you miss?” Bodie’s words echoed through him. “Guess we might have missed more than we thought, Sunshine,” he told his absent partner.

And the anger went both ways. The picture of Bodie running away from him with pounds of explosives strapped to his chest still sent shivers through him. He’d been so mad at Bodie when he’d realized what the dumb crud was doing, and why he was doing it, that he hadn’t even considered not going after him. The tackle had left them both bruised, but the pain was nothing compared to what it would have felt like to not have gone after Bodie.

But it wasn’t all wrapped in anger. There had been moments of genuine affection, not hidden or made light of. When Preston had been trying to kill him with the long range American rifle, Bodie had taken on the role of bodyguard without being asked. Bodie had been trying to get him to be more careful, not expose himself so readily to the danger. In exasperation Bodie had said “You're as mad as he is…The nutter! Could be anywhere, couldn't he? Eh? A thousand yards. What's that? A hit. Easy, couldn't miss.  
…and you're just going to sit here and take it like a traditional nanny goat…and then what?” His reply had been “You’ll save me.” And Bodie had.

Another picture floated by, of him wrapped in Bodie’s arms at the training centre. His ribs ached and he couldn’t catch his breath. More images from that day appeared, this time him going after Macklin with a knife. Why had he done that? He saw again the blood on Bodie’s shirt, felt again the anger that had raced through him when Macklin had injured his partner; felt the rage that had propelled him to attack the trainer in order to protect his partner. He remembered the humiliation and the pain he’d felt when Macklin took him down so easily and then the comfort and protection he’d found in Bodie’s arms.

They shared the same dark sense of humor and now that he thought about it, it was usually used to cover up other, more uncomfortable emotions. He remembered the bomb he’d dismantled in Bodie’s phone when someone was out to eliminate all of CI5. He’d found Bodie, finger in the phone’s dial looking a bit nervous. They had exchanged snarky comments the whole time he’d been disarming the bomb. When the danger had passed he’d told Bodie if he’d dialed one more number “it would have been the last cheap-rate call you ever made.” Looking back, he realized that the jokes were made to keep their fear for each other at bay. Neither could let the other know what they were actually feeling.

On another obbo, humor had served the same purpose. He heard Bodie say again, “Look, I believe in me, mate, because I was born tall, dark, and beautiful--and engagingly modest, of course.” The words had made him laugh on a night when he was a bundle of nerves but wasn’t about to admit it. That was a night he prized above all others. They were holed up in a hallway waiting for the Parsali meeting. They’d spread out sleeping bags and settled in for an uncomfortable night. Maybe it was because they both knew sleep was far off or maybe they shared a sense of pending danger but for whatever reason they were both willing to share parts of themselves that had been kept locked behind doors. It had started with another night’s bout of insomnia. He was amused by the irony.

Bodie projected a “I only look out for number one” attitude to the world. But Bodie had taken a reprimand from Cowley on that job for not following orders in order to save him. He didn’t buy the "look after the Number One" credo. He knew that Bodie used it as a shield to protect his softer side. But their conversation that night, and the mutual admittance the following morning that they were both often scared, had more firmly entrenched Bodie in the part of his heart that was Bodie’s alone. It made him want to protect the big clown in turn. And maybe his partner had received a peek behind the wall that held all that was Raymond Doyle as well. That didn’t make him feel as uncomfortable as it once would have.

More recollections, this time a punch delivered to the younger Coogan brother. It had resulted in the man’s death, his own overwhelming sense of guilt and the chance for the detractors of CI5 to pull it down. He’d locked himself away when he’d been suspended. Bodie hadn’t left him alone to brood for very long. Harsh, angry words had passed between them. He’d not been swayed by Bodie’s arguments that he might not have killed Coogan or by Bodie’s pleas that Cowley needed them to hold it together now. Bodie had been dismayed by his reluctance to stop feeling sorry for himself and threw unsympathetic words at him. “I’ll leave you to wallow in your own self pity,” and Bodie had turned to go. But he didn’t leave. Instead Bodie had turned back and sat on the coffee table looking into his partners bleak eyes. They stared at each other for long minutes. He couldn’t begin to name all the feelings that passed almost like an electric current between them. Finally he gave in, offering up a small smile and Bodie had eaten it up. The goofy grin he received from his mate let him know that all was forgiven, or that just maybe there had been nothing to forgive to begin with.

He poured another whiskey, this time leaving out the tea. He mused on his feelings for his partner. They were both experts at keeping their emotions locked away behind strong walls. They had both learned the hard way that revealing feelings showed weakness and left you vulnerable. Yet those walls came down when loss was a real possibility. He remembered, without shame, the tears he’d shed when Bodie had been knifed by that black gang. “You half Irish bastard…what did you have to go and do that for?” What had he been accusing Bodie of doing? Of putting himself in danger, or of taking unnecessary risks that would take him permanently away from his partner? He felt as confused now as he had in that hospital hallway. What would he do without Bodie?

The tears went both ways too. He remembered waking up in the hospital after the Mayli shooting and seeing his partner with what look suspiciously like tears on his pale face. He’d thought at the time he’d imagined it, but in light of all these other reflections had he been wrong? Had Bodie actually cried for him?

“Not enough hate, too much of other,” Macklin had said. Was he right?

Was it possible? Did he think of Bodie as more than his partner, his friend? Was it love? He laughed at himself. What else could it be? “I guess there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to tell the sodding bastard.” He smiled, content, as he settled back on the settee and finally drifted into sleep.


End file.
